Inherently Dangerous
by OneChance2
Summary: Set 14 years after a 'Study in Pink', Sherlock and John are old, dear friends. They're on a case investigating an unusual circumstance where a young man stands to inherit a fortune, if he can prove his identity. But when a close brush with death during the case leads Sherlock to believe he has outgrown the need for his blogger, his cruel tactics force John to the edge.
1. The Billion Dollar Baby

"Sherlock…." John's voice called from the kitchen. He flipped the yellow dish towel onto his shoulder as he finished the tidying up.

"Sherlock…" He repeated louder to be heard over the music. "It's 11 o'clock. Our client should be here any minute." He filled the kettle in the sink, putting on the water for their guest.

"He's already here." Sherlock observed coolly, drawing back the curtain with the bow of his violin.

"Oh?" Watson crossed the floor to where Sherlock was sitting. He gripped the back of the chair, peering over Sherlock's left shoulder to see out the window. "Which one?" This was always an amusing game for John. He enjoyed watching Sherlock deduce everything about the client before they even arrived.

"That one. The American graduate student." Sherlock pointed at a young man in his late 20's just across the street.

"How can you tell?" John encouraged the genius from time to time.

Sherlock flashed him a sideways glance, simultaneously annoyed and eager to show off. "American, from the way that he dresses. Denim, trainers, and a baseball cap jutting out from under the hood of a jacket with a large sports team logo on it - Obvious. He also looked the wrong way when crossing the street, stepping into traffic. His backpack says student along with the large keychain with a school emblem hanging off of it. His age suggests graduate student, or else a late start. His parents must be middle class, wealthy enough to pay nearly 10 times the tuition that the average UK student pays to attend the same University. As for being our client his mannerisms suggest he is looking for the flat. And…" The doorbell made a sickly buzz with a belated chime. "he's ringing the bell…"

"I've been meaning to fix that bell…" John sighed, straightening up. "I'll go let him in."

"Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson will get the door." He turned to shout, not budging from his chair.

"N…" John started to protest, quickly covering his ears.

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock's voice boomed.

"Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is elderly, very elderly. You can't have her getting up to answer the door all the time."

"Don't coddle her, John. The woman could use exercise. You've already asked me not to have her climb the stairs, what's the point of having a housekeeper if she can't be of any use at all? And now that we are discussing it, you told her that you'd fix that bell nearly a month ago, I'm starting to believe that you don't know how."

"She's not our housekeeper. She's the landlady. And I said I'll take care of it, I will. I'm going to go get our client. I'll be right back." John tossed the dish towel towards the sink on his way out the door.

Sherlock listened to the familiar pattern of John's footsteps on the stairs. It used to be two-stair hop, now it was a bit slower, one stair at a time to the front door. He retrieved his violin case to store the instrument, twisting the screw on the bow to relax the hair. John had taken the guests coat by now and would be on his way up.

"Can I get you some tea?" John's voice rang out as they re-entered the flat.

"No thanks. I'm not really a tea drinker." The young man replied, "I'll take coffee if you got it."

"I'll go put on a pot." John replied politely. Little did Mr. Jameson know that he had just set himself up to be left under the full scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes, without any of the polite padding that John had to offer. Sherlock wasn't always difficult with the clients, sometimes he could manage to be very charming, but on days like this the young man had better prove himself quickly or else he would be abruptly ejected from the flat

"Nathan Jameson" He extended a hand to the detective.

"You're late." He replied shortly.

"Am I?" He checked his watch. It was 11:02. "The appointment was at 11 wasn't it?"

"It was 11, yes." Sherlock started. "Which means that you had better speak quickly to make up for lost time."

"So where are you from, Mr. Jameson?" John called from the kitchen, interrupting any lecture from Sherlock.

"Nathan." He offered. "I'm originally from New Hampshire. I'm here for grad school; I just started this semester at UCL. I've been living in Camden in the grad dorm."

"So is this your first time in the UK then?"

"Skip it…." Holmes interrupted.

John sighed, so much for being polite. "What brings you here today, Nathan?" Ever the good host, he set a cup of coffee and a tray of biscuits on the table.

"I got this letter in the mail." He reached into his back pocket pulling out the folded sheet of paper2. "I thought it was junk at first, but when I read it, it seemed to know an awful lot about me. They don't normally know that much information about someone, you know?"

John unfolded the paper, reading it over. "It seems official," Watson said aloud for Sherlock's benefit. "The paper quality is nice. It is written on the letterhead of Spaulding and Ross, which sounds like a law firm. The letter was signed by a Mr. Geraldi and witnessed."

Sherlock was pleased with John's observations.

"Have you ever heard of Elijah Geraldi?" Nathan asked.

John looked up, not quite through the whole letter yet. "Sure. He's been in the paper a lot recently. A billionaire philanthropist. He's been ill I think."

"That's right. I hadn't heard of him before I got that letter." Nathan pointed at the biscuits on the tray Watson had set down. John extended an invitation to enjoy while he finished reading.

Nathan took a cautious bite. "Oh, it's a cookie." He seemed surprised.

"It seems this is regarding your adoption?" John engaged their guest. "Your birth parents are trying to contact you."

"That's right." He replied, still chewing. "I was born sometime early 1996. I was abandoned by my birth parents. I was handed off to foster care until my parents adopted me later that year. In the letter, they knew all of that. Where I was found. The date my parents adopted me. Everything."

John passed the letter to Sherlock to have a read, but he didn't move, continuing to listen in silence. He placed it on the table instead. Obviously Sherlock would prefer to hear the story in Mr. Jameson's own words. He steepled his hands under his chin as he usually did when he was in a judicious mood.

"There is an article included." Nathan motioned to the next page. "In 1996 Elijah Geraldi's son was kidnapped. He was taken right out of his stroller. It was headline news in all of the papers. They called it the missing 'billion dollar baby'. The Geraldi's offered a huge reward. No one ever came forward or asked for a ransom."

"So… they are implying that you might be the missing Geraldi baby?" Watson asked. He shrugged "And wound up all the way in the States?"

"Crazy right? The letter says they narrowed it down to a pool of candidates. I am a paternity test away from winning the genetic lottery." Nathan grinned.

"Seems almost too good to be true." John replied cautiously, setting down his cup. "Some sort of elaborate attempt at inheritance fraud or identity theft? Did you research this lawfirm?" He asked, tapping the letter.

"Yeah, I went on their website and everything. It seemed legit. The letter said that I had to come to the Geraldi Estate on June the 18th and that I would be given £50 to show up and take the test. I showed the letter to my roommate and we decided to make a day trip out of it. I wanted to check it out, but it's not like I was going to give anyone my social security number or anything." His reference was completely irrelevant here.

"So you went to the Estate on the designated day?" Sherlock shifted in his chair to sit on his legs. A sign he was intrigued. "Tell me what happened. Don't leave anything out."

"When I got there, there were like 100 other guys. There was some man in a suit with a bull horn telling everyone to line up and take one of the cotton swabs; you know, to scrape the inside of your mouth."

"And every one of them had a similar letter recording their own personal adoption history?" Sherlock asked.

"That's what they said."

"This test, have you received a response?" Sherlock inquired.

"Not yet. I've been waiting almost 2 months now, but I haven't heard anything."

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "I haven't heard any indication that an actual crime has been committed here." Sherlock mused. "But your story is unique." He complimented him on at least being entertaining so far, even if he was wasting his time.

"How does something like this not make the news?" John wondered out loud. "The media would love something like this. You can see the headlines. 'Billionaire searching for long lost son'"

"Well it says in the letter we're not supposed to contact the news or police to protect Mr. Geraldi's privacy. If we do, we forfeit our potential inheritance."

"But yet you came to us." Sherlock observed. He leaned forward. "Why is that?"

Nathan nodded slowly, becoming more tense "Because, since then I can't shake the feeling that I'm being followed." He took a deep breath, there was more.

"And then two weeks ago my roommate was hit by a car. He texted me while he was on his bike. He said some car behind him was being a dick and driving too close. I told him to pull off the road, and let him go by. The University called me the next day."

"That's very unfortunate to hear." John said sympathetically. "But it doesn't necessarily mean anything unusual. It can be dangerous for cyclists out there. Especially if distracted."

"I know what you're thinking, but a lot of weird things had been happening before that." He paused a moment.

"What things?" Holmes probed.

"I… I don't know. I think someone tried to break into our room. They didn't take anything." His tone became increasingly defensive. "You have to believe me. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm not just being paranoid."

"I see." Holmes said thoughtfully. "I accept your case."

John raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes." He stood. "Thank you very much." He went to shake Sherlock's hand again, and this time the detective took it, warmly.

"My professional advice to you, Mr. Jameson, would be to go take a holiday. It's Friday. Get out of London. Be spontaneous. I assure you that, in your absence, I will have this case wrapped up by Monday." Holmes replied, feigning being the type of human being that encourages people.

"Wow! I don't know what to say!"

"Just say you're leaving." He turned sharply. "John make sure he gets a cab to the station." He started to walk away, and then snapped his fingers as if remembering something. "Oh," he tapped his forehead twice. "May I have your mobile?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, holding out his hand.

"My what? Oh my cellphone?" He pulled a basic pay as you go phone out of his pocket.

"Yes please. I will return it to your possession promptly on Monday."

Nathan hesitantly turned his phone over to Sherlock, who immediately handed it off to Watson.

"Enjoy your trip." He offered one of his forced smiles.

John saw the young man out, retrieving his jacket and cap. He returned up the stairs, closing the door behind him. Sherlock sat crossed legged on his chair, fingers steepled under his chin.

"Why'd you send him off?" John asked.

"It was the only protection that I could offer under the circumstances. I believe that if he remains in London he will be in danger."

"Any idea what this is about then?"

"Theories." Sherlock replied.

"Who do you think sent out that letter?" John asked,

Sherlock opened his eyes; his brilliant, intense gaze locked on Watson. "The kidnapper, of course."


	2. The Legal Services of Spaulding and Ross

It had been just over an hour since Sherlock had told John, in no uncertain terms, to be quiet and leave him alone so that he could think over the case. Usually John would go on a walk at times like these but today, he just couldn't find the motivation.

John lay, stretched diagonally across his bed, lying on top of the sheets that were meticulously folded with military style corners.

He reached over to the bedside table, retrieving a small photo frame.

In the photo, Mary Watson wore her pretty blue dress with the white flowers on it. John stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, playfully lifting her off her feet. He'd surprised her, making them both giggle. When she laughed, she laughed with all of her heart.

"Hello, Sweetheart." He smiled, his thumb stroking the frame tenderly.

They had gone to the clinic when Mary was having trouble getting pregnant. They were being realistic, they had accepted the possibility that they had gone passed the window of fertility. Mary had taken an exam to see if she would be a candidate for fertility treatment. That's when they found the cancer had metastasized.

Ovarian cancer: more common in women that had not had children, largely influenced by hereditary factors. Symptoms in the early stages were subtle, often misinterpreted. Her prognosis was 5 years. It had been exact. She was sick, the treatments made her sicker.

John let his hand slump back against the mattress, releasing the photograph.

He rubbed at both eyes with the heel of his hands before running his hands back and forth over his face, finally burying his fingers in his hair.

"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed from downstairs.

The silence was over at last.

"John! Are you ready? We're going!"

"Oh God yes!" John leapt off the bed, leaving the photograph behind. He bounded down the steps to find Sherlock already donning his scarf and long coat.

John didn't mind Sherlock's demands. He needed the distraction; to be swept up in the manic excitement, and throw himself wholly into Sherlock's mad dangerous world.

John quickly grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. He patted the pockets on his jacket and trousers. Mobile, keys, wallet, check. Gun... just in case. "Ready!" He replied, following the excitable detective out the door to their next hunt.

He turned to lock the flat when he spotted Nathan's mobile on the counter top. Quickly, he tucked it into the inside chest pocket of his jacket and hurried out after Sherlock.

"Taxi!" Sherlock bellowed. No one could miss the towering figure of his flat mate, his long frame even more exaggerated with his hand stretched out to hail a cab. A black cab pulled up almost instantly. John never had that kind of luck without Sherlock around.

He slid all the way across the seat, followed by Sherlock.

"Gutter Lane and Goldsmith" Sherlock informed the cabbie.

"So where do we start? Are we going to speak to Mr. Geraldi?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock answered with a superior edge to his tone. "Not until I am able to gather more data to present a stronger case. It's a 20 minute drive from Baker St. to our destination so we will have time to review the facts."

"Alright." John agreed, ready to listen.

"You said yourself that Mr. Jameson's story was too good to be true. It agree, it is. But who is lying and for what reason? We will have to take his story apart, one piece at a time, and try to reconstruct the truth, starting with this." He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and extracted the letter to Nathan Jameson, twisting it in the air.

"This is the largest and most improbable piece in this tangle of lies."

"You said you thought the kidnapper sent that. I don't think I've ever heard you jump to a conclusion so quickly before. What proof do you have."

"Mathematics. Try to follow me on this John. We can estimate the population in the United Kingdom in 1996 as around 58 million." He held up his left hand, opting for visual aids to help Watson understand. "Likewise the population in the United States at that time was approximately 270 million." He held up his right hand.

"If we suppose that 2% of the overall population is adopted, then our pool is reduced to 6.6 million between those two countries." He made a small circle with both of his hands. "Now, some fraction of that again will fit the exact age and description of Mr. Jameson at the time of his adoption. Do you see where I am going with this?"

"I think so. Even if, from that pool, you narrow the description of the child down to someone like Nathan, that could still fit the description of hundreds of thousands if not millions of children."

"Exactly. And I have only given examples of two countries."

"So there could be millions of these letters distributed globally"

"Yes, it's possible," Sherlock agreed "although logistically difficult and far less likely to remain a secret for very long."

"This first hypothesis requires Mr. Geraldi to have poured his vast global resources into the singular effort of locating his son, employing thousands of solicitors globally to search through adoption records in the hopes that the child did in fact survive the kidnapping and was adopted through legal means. Complicating this is the fact that many adoption records are sealed, meaning that he would be forced to omit these particular cases from the selection or otherwise obtain the records through illegal means. That leads us into the second option."

"What's the second option?"

"A subset was selected from the population from the very start."

"That does seem more likely…" John mused. "But how did they chose?"

He grinned, glad to have John playing along. "To answer this question we should start at the top, with the legal services of Spaulding and Ross." He pinched the top of the letter, pointing to the names of the solicitors on the letterhead.

"Do you have your tablet with you John?"

"Yes, of course" he replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and passing it to Holmes.

Holmes quickly Googled the website for Spaulding and Ross. "Here is the page that Nathan found. It was simple advertisement that included a list of their legal services and contact information.

As the cab came to a stop, Sherlock immediately hopped out to survey the area, leaving John to pay the fare and tip.

A moment later, John found Sherlock scrutinizing the screen. He craned his neck to see what the detective was looking at. The image showed the moniker of Spaulding and Ross positioned over a sleek glass building with two clean looking white stone buildings on either side.

"How do you plan on getting Mr. Spaulding or Ross to speak with us?" John asked. "I'm sure they'll want to protect their client."

Sherlock lowered the tablet, revealing a Chinese food restaurant, between two clean looking white stone buildings on either side.

John's eyes brows raised so high they practically disappeared into his hair line. He checked the screen again to make sure this was the right place. Opening his mouth to say something to Sherlock, he settled instead on cocking his head to the side, staring in bewilderment.

"I don't believe we will need to worry about that just yet, John." Sherlock replied to John's earlier comment, his gaze still fixed on the building.

…

…

"… Lunch?" John offered, turning lemons into lemonade. He could go for Chinese food.

Sherlock shot him a deadly glare.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	3. Bleeding Hearts Have the Most to Hide

While Sherlock considered the problem at hand, John went ahead and ordered lunch for himself. Sherlock's habit of denying himself food during cases often meant missing more than a few meals himself. Although, he had to admit, he might do well to miss a few. The years had rounded out his features just a bit.

There were no public benches outside the restaurant that occupied what should have been the location of Mr. Geraldi's attorney's. So instead, John sat on a nearby concrete barrier outlining the edge of a motorcycle bay.

"Can I ask you something?" John poked idly with his chopsticks at the crispy honey chicken piled in the white take-out box.

"Hmm?" Sherlock only half acknowledged him. He was still toying with the photograph of Spaulding and Ross.

"Why did you accept this case? You said yourself that you didn't think anything illegal was going on. "

"I said that I hadn't come to a decision. However, I can now tell you that there is certainly something 'going on'."

"And how do you know that?"

"The Golden Panda - Attorney at law." He gestured grandly at the building with the sweep of one hand.

"So they invented a fake solicitor." Watson shrugged, serenely surveying the street. The iconic dome of St. Paul's that toward in this area was entirely blocked from view by the tall buildings crowded along the narrow lane. "Maybe they just wanted to keep it all a secret. To keep people from suing over the investigations."

"Keep the law firm a secret but not the client? Think it through." Sherlock sniped.

Watson concede on that point.

"What is your impression of Mr. Geraldi?" It was often a trap when Sherlock Holmes asked for his observations. He claimed to benefit from a different perspective but never failed to inform John of just how pathetic his grasp of the situation was. John didn't really mind though. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock, which was always absolutely brilliant.

"I suppose I feel bad for him." Watson replied honestly.

"How so?"

"He seems like a good person. He has spent his entire life dedicated to a charity supporting children in developing countries. And now that he may be nearing the end of his life it seems he's trying to make one last attempt to find his own child." John sympathized. "I can imagine that it must be very difficult to lose a child."

"Of course you can't imagine it. You've never had children."

"That's not..." He started to protest, but gave up with a sigh. "Forget it." Sherlock's lack of tact just wasn't worth the argument. Instead he stuffed another piece of chicken in his mouth to quiet himself.

"Don't make people into Saints, John." He pushed. "You will always be disappointed."

"That's right, I almost forgot about your innate distrust of charities, humanitarians, and random acts of kindness." John sniped back.

"Bleeding hearts typically have the most to hide." Sherlock murmured matter-of-factly. He rotated the tablet, angling it back and forth.

"What are you doing?"

"I am trying to replicate the angle of this photograph." Suddenly he hopped up on the narrow barrier, tilting the camera up and down.

"You look ridiculous. You realize that, right?" John steadied him anyway. Sherlock wasn't as young as he once was.

Sherlock swatted his hand away, his balance was perfectly fine thank you. Apparently not satisfied yet he held the tablet over his head and snapped a picture. He examined it quickly before turning around, scanning the buildings around them.

"Come along, John." He commanded, dismounting the barrier. Some days John felt a bit like a terrier.

In the moment it took to gather his belongings and toss his half eaten lunch in the bin, Sherlock had disappeared out of sight. "Oh bloody hell..." John muttered, unsure which direction the detective had run off in.

He jogged towards the nearest cross street, stopping at the end to peer down the way. He caught a glimpse of a black coat swishing around the turn down the street running parallel. Damn his long legs... He started after him.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, violently pulling him backwards mid-stride.

Military reflexes taking over, John spun into the motion, sweeping his right arm across his chest, his forearm colliding with his attacker's, effectively removing the man's grip on his shoulder. He followed through with his left hand, shoving the man away.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" John snarled.

A man with tightly cropped silver hair and an ash grey suit staggered back. Holding his hands in the air he grinned in amusement. "Sorry 'bout that, mate. Thought you were someone else."

He stood straight, tidying his suit, "No hard feelings?" He offered his hand.

"Piss off," John growled. It didn't matter who this man had mistaken him for, his intentions were clearly hostile.

"Cheers" He snorted smugly and turned to leave.

John stood his ground, stone-faced, watching the man as he casually strolled towards Cheapside.

He waited until he was sure that the man was gone. He shuddered, physically trying to shake off the adrenaline. Now where had Sherlock run off to? He hurried around the bend.

He found the consulting detective standing at the gate of a shared office building with a 'to let' sign on it.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, immediately recognizing John's distress.

"I think some aresehole just tried to mug me..." He pointed behind him.

"Already?" Sherlock asked, seeming thoughtful.

"It was just back there," John started to explain, assuming he was speaking to a human being who would have asked where and when this happened. "Wait, what do you mean already?"

"What did he look like?" Sherlock deflected, looking down the street in search of the attacker.

"Man in a suit. Short grey hair. Strong build. Nasty attitude." He rattled the description off quickly. "What did you mean by already?" John wasn't going to let that go so easily.

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment before dismissing him with a wave. "Never mind that now. The photograph was taken from the first floor of this building."

He sighed, dutifully stepping back into his role. "There's no listing." John informed him, reading the register of business's that occupied the shared spaces.

"Yes, I spoke with the woman inside. It was leased two months ago. 40 days later the new business folded. They paid a half years rent in full to break lease. The equipment was moved out overnight. The space has been vacant since."

"She volunteered all that?"

"I was very charming."

"I'm sure." Watson rolled his eyes.

Sherlock pulled out a handful of letters, scanning their address and then tossing them on the ground one after another.

"What? She gave you their letters too?!" Watson stuttered, woman would break laws to throw themselves at Sherlock Holmes!

"No, these I lifted." He muttered like that a normal thing to do.

Finding what he was looking for he let the rest of the pile drop. Quickly, he ran his finger under the fold of the envelope tearing it open.

"What's that then?" John asked.

"A bill from a medical supplier" He held it up to John. "See anything interesting?"

John scanned the list, it was all fairly routine medical and scientific equipment. Nothing special. Hot plates, small centrifuge, pipettes, Petri dishes. Then he saw it, "Lysis mix. It's used to lyse cells for DNA extraction. The paternity tests?"

"My skills are rubbing off on you." Sherlock boasted pridefully

"I'm a doc.. Never mind." He stopped himself, practicing patience again. "What does it mean?"

"It means." He grinned. "That at this rate, I'll have this case wrapped up by tomorrow night!" He strode off confidently to hail a cab.

John thought on this for a moment. He had been with Sherlock the whole day. He had seen and heard all of - alright most of, save a moment ago - the evidence that Sherlock had. But as far as he could see all they had done was nearly proven the impossible story correct. Mr. Geraldi was trying to locate his long lost son. And he was doing everything in his power to keep it a secret.

The silver-haired man watched the consulting detective and his partner enter a black cab. He started the car, waiting, keeping his distance. His mobile buzzed quietly on the passenger seat beside him. He slid his finger across the screen to answer and listened carefully to the voice on the other end of the line.

"No. It wasn't him." He replied coldly. "Yes, he's involved the police."

* * *

Hello, Thank you for reading! I hope that you are find the story interesting so far. I know it's a slow build but I really wanted a case to be at the heart of the it. The scene is officially set after this chapter, the action and angst will come I promise.

Just as a note on the last chapter. If you're familiar with the area you probably know that while there are many building similar to the one I mentioned there are no Chinese food restaurants on the street. There is a very very nice looking Italian restaurant but that is neither here nor there. Bad me! Ah well, It's all for fun anyway.


End file.
